As the sound of the thunder rolled away a sad plaint was heard.
“That’s not the wind, it’s the specter,” murmured the private, as if in response to the pressure of his companion’s hand.
“Ay! Ay!” came through the air, rising above the noise of the rain, nor could the whistling wind drown that sweet and mournful voice charged with affliction.
Again the lightning flashed with dazzling intensity.
“No, it’s not a specter!” exclaimed the distinguido.
“I’ve seen her before. She’s beautiful, like the Virgin! Let’s get away from here and report it.”
The private did not wait for him to repeat the invitation, and both disappeared.
Who was moaning in the middle of the night in spite of the wind and rain and storm? Who was the timid maiden, the bride of Christ, who defied the unchained elements and chose such a fearful night under the open sky to breathe forth from so perilous a height her complaints to God? Had the Lord abandoned his altar in the nunnery so that He no longer heard her supplications? Did its arches perhaps prevent the longings of the soul from rising up to the throne of the Most Merciful?
The tempest raged furiously nearly the whole night, nor did a single star shine through the darkness. The despairing plaints continued to mingle with the soughing of the wind, but they found Nature and man alike deaf; God had hidden himself and heard not.
On the following day, after the dark clouds had cleared away and the sun shone again brightly in the limpid sky, there stopped at the door of the nunnery of St. Clara a carriage, from which alighted a man who made himself known as a representative of the authorities. He asked to be allowed to speak immediately with the abbess and to see all the nuns.